the thing about holding a heart in your hands

the thing about holding a heart in your hands is that

it drips       all over your clothes;

you smell like it       

                       every

                          where 

                                you go.

when you bring it home

it stains your rug,

leaves        wobbly hand marks on the wall 

like a careless child     with a bottle 

                                                of red paint for the first time.

then stands back for a second, considering 

his first-ever         masterpiece

and swelling with the sweet,     sweet power

of knowing he can     

                           ruin something.

it makes too much noise 

so you have to learn to shout over it

and then the neighbours call the police 

and even their       sirens seem 

                                                safer 

than love’s         

                 overbearing song.

it tears through everything you own

like a thief looking for a memory 

to turn upside 

                   down,

like an     uninvited guest 

snooping through your drawers

eyeing           your favourite 

                           flower-pressed

                                      necklace.

it lies sprawled in the middle of the living room floor 

like a drunk best friend trying to forget.

it looks out the window with a gleam in its eye.

it wants to fly.

it wants to die.

instead, it chooses to scream 

                          at the wind 

                             and the trees 

                                 and the untiring sunrise

because things like these just know how to

be

and it does not.

a heart does not know how to simply 

be.

it has to 

            beat 

               and beat 

                    and beat 

till it hurts and everyone is sick

                                            of the music.

it doesn’t let you out the door.

it doesn’t let you out the door.

it eats all your food and 

leaves you to do the dishes,

makes a mess and never 

takes out the trash.

that’s the thing about holding a heart in your hands -

it leaves room for nothing 

                                       more.

-pia